


Ashokan Farewell

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Time Marches On [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Vessels, Angels, Cemetery, Gen, Season/Series 01, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you’re telling <i>me</i>,” Dean started, folding a leg closer to his chest, “that <i>Angels</i> actually <i>exist</i>? And <i>here</i>, of all places?”</p><p>“You’re talking like I’m not sitting next to you. That’s rude.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashokan Farewell

“According to local residents, up to three Angels tend to the grounds every day,” Sam offered him from across their hotel room –an actual _hotel_ , for once—while Dean tied his boot strings. “It’s _supposed_ to be a holy place.”

“Holy shmoly,” he bit back, moving to his other shoe. It was supposed to be their day _off_ , and Sam was going off about tourist attractions and historical sites. All he wanted to do was rest his feet for a day, but was that even a remote possibility? No. Sam wanted to go to some… cemetery in the middle of the largest city in the southeast. _He_ just wanted to get back on the road, find their next case. How did his old adage go again? “I don’t get your whole ‘obsession with Angel’s’ thing, man.”

“Come _on_ , Dean!” From the table, he heard his brother close his laptop and stretch his arms high. It had been their first bit of downtime in weeks, and ever the busy body, Sam spent most of his time on the laptop, leaving Dean to either nap or aimlessly flip channels on the, for once, _functioning_ television. Thanks, Hal Stevenson. But since _when_ did either of them care about seeing the sights? “Out of all the _monsters_ , vampires, Demons, spirits, and you don’t believe in _Angels_?”

Dean scoffed, kicking his feet up onto the bedspread and crossing his ankles. “We have _proof_ of those, we’ve _killed_ them! Have we ever actually _seen_ an Angel?” Sam was glaring in his direction. “ _Prove_ to me they exist, and I _might_ just believe you.”

“Then come with me!” Dean rolled his eyes. “The place is across the highway, a five minute drive. Get off your ass and do this for me, will you?”

He let out an over exaggerated sigh. “You’re lucky you’re my brother.”

A smirk. “Only cause you won’t let me drive your car.”

 

Dean had to admit, the weather was nicer than it had been the last week. They had gotten a call a few days prior about a rash of unexplained deaths centering around an abandoned schoolhouse in the south side of Decatur. Said deaths turned out to be perpetrated by a couple of kids thinking it would be a _great_ idea to bind a ghost to do their bidding. Needless to say, they burnt the bones to cinders in an overgrown graveyard, in the middle of the _woods_ , no less, and gave said kids the talking to of their _lives_. Their original estimate of four days turned out to be two and a half, and with no strange occurrences popping up in their general vicinity, they were stuck for the remainder of their time in a _very_ nice hotel with water pressure sent from the Gods.

A walk outside with nothing to do, no monsters waiting in the shadows –presumably—should have put his mind at ease. It wasn't even blindingly hot either, temperatures resting at a balmy seventy-five; enough for an over shirt, but not for the jacket he was so fond of wearing. Still, he couldn't complain; Sam was absolutely thrilled, going on and on about something he had read in a pamphlet about the place, about whatever lore he pulled up before they left. Most of it fell on deaf ears, save for the words ‘Angels’ and ‘Thursday.’

The gates to the Cemetery read Oakland –from what Sam continued to spew, it was built in the 1850’s and held a sizeable population of soldiers from all wars, along with famous celebrities that were born in Georgia and every governor since the founding. Smack dab in the middle of a sea of skyscrapers on fourty-eight acres of land outside of a rail station – the city grew up around it, and yet it never aged a day since its construction. It was…weird, to say the least. Peaceful, but out of place.

Stepping onto the asphalt walkway, Sam blazed on. “Now according to my sources—.”

“ _Your_ sources?” Dean scoffed.

“Yes, _my_ sources, Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes. “The Angels of Thursday are Sachiel, Asasiel and Castiel.”

“And what makes you think they’ll be _here_ of all places? Don’t they have… I don't know, Angel things to do?” Hundred year oaks lined their path, asphalt and rocks winding their way through the grounds as they traversed closer to what he suspected was the Jewish section. He spotted an obelisk in the distance, an American flag flying close by, whipping in the wind. Children were walking with their mother in the distance. “Sounds like a lot of bull to me.”

Sam huffed. “Can’t you hang up your skepticism for a _few_ hours? Just because _you_ think it’s all shit doesn’t mean _I_ have to.”

“Fine, fine,” he conceded with a wave of the hand. “I’ll humor you. Why don’t you go… look for your Angel buddies, I’ll be around when you get done. Deal?”

Something told him Sam would’ve preferred to shove him into a nearby headstone, but instead he opted for a shrug. “Meet me at the… bell tower in an hour?”

Dean agreed without a word, and the two parted ways at a fork –Sam straight ahead, and himself to the left, in the direction of the obelisk. A light breeze blew past, the sound of wind chimes and the flutter of feathers wafting in the air. “You shouldn’t belittle him like that,” a small voice said at his side; he nearly launched himself sideways from shock. “It’s nice for someone to still have faith, these days.”

“Yeah, well, what would you know about h—.” No one was standing in his line of sight. Instead, nearly at the height of his hip, was a young blue-eyed boy, blond hair shoved in every direction possible, fingers swallowed up in a jacket too big his size. It was too hot for the clothing he wore –and worst of all, where were his _parents_? He couldn't have been more than nine, maybe ten at the most. “…Where did _you_ come from?”

“Around,” the boy shrugged. “This v—my mother is visiting her grandfather’s grave. She was crying.”

“I’m…sorry to hear that.” And he really was. But that wasn't an excuse to up and walk away like that –what if she was looking for him? And what would she think when she found him with a strange man? “Are you lost?” A nod. “Do you want me to help you find her?”

The boy shook his head, instead reaching up with small fingers to tug at his own. “Will you walk with me for a while?”

Odd request, but that was what he was planning on doing, anyway. Just as long as they didn't go far from that spot, he was fine. He wouldn't be arrested because he was walking around with some strange kid, that way. So, he let the boy hold two of his fingers and they walked towards a –seemingly— sparsely-occupied area of the cemetery. It was _weird_ being there in the daytime with nothing to dig up and not having to look over his shoulder every two seconds. Plus he was sure if he tried anything here, the state government would be on his ass for the rest of his life for vandalism. That was just the kind of attention he needed.

In a shorter time than he anticipated, they were standing in front of the obelisk he saw from the gate –three stories tall, with the front reading ‘Our Confederate Dead, 1873.’ To the right were small, nearly two-foot high marble markers, either with a name of the deceased, or ‘Unknown’ inscribed into the stone. “There are sixteen Union soldiers buried in there,” the boy commented, pointing his free hand towards the Confederate section and dragging Dean into the grass, walking through the rows behind the headstones. “I’ve never been able to find them.”

It wasn't the most _interesting_ way to spend time, but he let the boy walk him around in search of those elusive stones, past the shade of the oaks and into the sun, down paved walkways into separate sections. Names passed in a blur –what kind of lives had those men led? And did anyone remember them after they were gone?

They stopped under an oak, the boy sitting alongside a larger stone, blue eyes staring aimlessly into the distance. Dean remained standing, leaning back against the tree. The breeze rolled on. “I was at Antietam,” the boy spoke, picking at a blade of glass. Hearing that, Dean watched him with more scrutiny –there was no physical _way_ that kid could’ve been _there_. That battle was over a hundred and fifty years ago, give or take. One of the only things he remembered from history classes in the past, the constant reiteration finally sinking in.

Antietam. Sharpsburg, Maryland. The bloodiest single day battle of the war between the states. “Several of us were. We watched along and asked ourselves, what could bring these humans to fight one another so brutally? Brothers killed brothers. Families were torn apart in seconds. Wives waited for their husbands to return, mothers for their sons. Was it all worth it?” He motioned to the markers, white stones gleaming in the sun. “These men here, died fighting for what they felt was right. Their city was decimated intentionally, all to bring the country to its collective knees. It was… disconcerting.”

Listening to the boy talk, he _knew_ he should be weary. There was something off about him, listening to someone so young talk about something beyond both of their lifetimes. There was no suspicious odor about him, no shift in his eyes, no strange markings – _and_ , he was out in the daytime, with witnesses. He wasn't _dangerous_ , not to his knowledge. But that bore the question – what _was_ he? Upon asking, he looked up from his spot, taking Dean’s hand again. “Sit for a while.”

So he did, stretching his legs out in the grass, head pressed into the bark. They watched a lone cloud pass over a skyscraper nearby. “This place… Amongst all the humans, the buildings, it’s calm. In a few years time, a storm will tear it to pieces.”

Dean snorted. “And how do you know _that_ , kid?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “I’m not a _kid_. I’m merely… using him temporarily. We still have a few minutes before his mother realizes he’s gone.”

He forgot to breathe. So if something was _possessing_ him… “Demon?”

“Hardly,” he shrugged. “Think higher, more holy.”

What the hell was higher than –oh. _Oh_. Looking over, he saw the boy _staring_ at him, blue eyes boring holes into his own. “So which one of the three are you, then?”

The boy chuckled to himself, turning back to the graves. “My name is Castiel,” he stated, like it was the only solid thing in the universe. “Your brother is talking to an older woman possessed by Asasiel as we speak. Sachiel has more… important things to do in Heaven.”

“So you’re telling _me_ ,” Dean started, folding a leg closer to his chest, “that _Angels_ actually _exist_? And _here_ , of all places?”

“You’re talking like I’m not sitting next to you. That’s rude.” Dean shook his head with a suppressed laugh. “Asasiel is assigned to these grounds on this day. Others visit occasionally. It’s a sacred place. We tend to the flowers and keep the memory of those who have departed alive, and maybe perform a minor miracle or two along the way.”

Dean sighed. “So you’re an Angel?” A nod. “Okay, Cas,” the boy shot him a look like he had committed some sort of blasphemy by misshaping his name, “if you are what you _say_ you are, then prove it.”

“…You want me to perform a miracle to prove my existence?” He cocked an eyebrow, a gesture unfit for his face. With a quick once over, Castiel motioned for his hand; reluctantly, Dean showed it to him, palm up, flannel sleeve yanked up to his elbow. The Angel ran small fingers over the cuts lining his wrists, fresh marks he was ashamed to admit he had inflicted himself. With each pass, he watched the lines knit together, leaving behind nothing but unblemished skin. His breath hitched at the sight. “I take it your brother doesn't know about your habits.”

A shaky nod. “I, uh… told him it was from our last hunt. I don’t know if he bought it.”

“You’re very methodical,” Castiel commented, still mindlessly tracing the thin skin of his wrist. Dean watched, transfixed. This was _weird_. “It’s understandable if you don’t believe, even after this. You’re a hunter, you’ve lived fighting what you can see. Angels only appear to those who are worthy.”

He grimaced, looking towards the obelisk. “You think I’m _worthy_?”

A small, almost invisible smile. “Of so much, Dean.”

He nearly choked on his own spit. “H-How do you know my name?”

“Your brother has become aware of Asasiel’s presence.” Castiel stood abruptly, holding out his hand for Dean to take. “He’s looking for you. I’d like you to take this vessel back to his mother.”

“Wait.” Castiel watched him, head cocked to the side. It shouldn't have been as adorable as it was. “Just… Why are you here?” _Why me_?

“In time.” There was that smile again, this time a bit bigger, more human. More fitting to whom he resided in. “I’ll leave you with this memory. You deserve to remember this day, but please refrain from mentioning our discussion to anyone.” A pause. “We’ll be seeing more of each other in the coming future.”

He didn't get to plead for him to stop again –a burst of blinding white streamed from the child’s mouth and dispersed heavenward, leaving the body and its inhabitant _extremely_ bewildered and staring at him like he was some sort of alien. It took a few seconds for both of them to gather their bearings.

The boy spoke first. “…Where am I?”

 _Great_. At least this was an area he could work with. Pulling himself into a crouch, he nodded in the direction from which they came. Granted, he didn't have a clue where _he_ was, either – Sam had the map. Splitting up wasn't one of his _greater_ ideas. “You, uh…” He cleared his throat – what was he supposed to say? “I saw you wandering around, you lost?”

A nod. “Mommy was over at Potter’s Field…”

Dean gave a quick grin. “C’mon,” he stood. “Let’s get you back.”

The hand holding thing wasn't a side effect of the boy’s former inhabitant, apparently – their entire trek through the cemetery, two fingers held his own tight, pulling him along through unfamiliar territory. The chattiness wasn't a trait either. He was downright mute, not even offering his name when asked. Good parenting on his mother’s part or shyness on his, he couldn't tell. Though, maybe having an Angel use him as a _vessel_ had something to do with it. He would be traumatized, too.

A woman was in sight standing alongside one of the more ornate of the headstones, head bowed in what looked to be prayer. At that point, the boy released his grip and waved a quick goodbye, before darting down the cobbled path towards his mother’s side. Dean made himself scarce before he caught anyone’s immediate attention, darting back from which he came, crossing a few of the more grassy plots in his wake.

Watching over his shoulder, he hadn’t expected to run into Sam. Physically. The sharp force of their collision – or more like _his_ collision – nearly put him flat on his ass. Sam wasn’t nearly as stunned, merely eyeing his brother as he righted himself. “ _Jesus_ , it’s like hitting a brick wall,” Dean mumbled, mostly to himself.

Sam gave a half laugh at that. “ _Right_.”

“Seriously, you get any bigger and I’m gonna have to stick warning lights on your head.” Not that that made any sense; Sam shot him a look. “So, you meet any of your Angel buddies?”

There was a pout to his tone, along with a visible disappointment. Had he not realized what he saw? “I—don’t think so, no,” Sam sighed, scratching at the back of his neck. “I mean, there was this lady, but—.”

Dean shook his head with a chuckle, patting his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll get ‘em next time.” And somewhere within his subconscious, the part of him that was _still_ fighting to realize that what he had witnessed was real and not just a trick of his imagination, believed it. He wasn’t about to drop to his knees and sing Hail Mary’s, but at least the idea was in his head. There were probably creatures out there who could heal him, like the boy had. It didn't make him special. He couldn’t believe he let him get away.

Sam snorted in disbelief. “And _you_ , of all people, think that? That we’ll meet an Angel someday?”

They walked towards the exit, Dean’s hands at his sides, eyes watching the asphalt; a black feather blended in, reflected light making it stand out amongst its dark surroundings. Larger than the one in his budding collection; not as soft, but stronger, less pliant. He picked it up with careful fingers, twirling it in the sunlight. Just maybe… “It’s a thought.”

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Notes:  
> -Title is from the song "Ashokan Farewell" by Jay Ungar, used in the PBS special "The Civil War."  
> -Oakland is one of the most anachronistic things in Atlanta. As mentioned, a tornado _did_ go through in 2008, destroying many of the trees and headstones, along with several downtown landmarks.  
>  -Sachiel, Asasiel and Castiel are all Angels of Thursday. 
> 
> I decided to continue on and make this into a series, so hopefully I'll be able to come up with more ideas for this~.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
